


Harmony

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Oh, Doctor Watson! [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dreams, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fur, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Sex Positions, Oral Sex, Roleplay, Service Top, There's also kind of a case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 09:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17384273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: No matter the number of years I spent in the company of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes, he could always surprise me with some hidden facet of himself. I have laid out in the first three parts of this story some of the finer details of what might be Holmes’ most unusual, some would say unspeakable, eccentricity. But a new revelation was at the dead center of a case Holmes had accepted...





	Harmony

No matter the number of years I spent in the company of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes, he could always surprise me with some hidden facet of himself. Not every day that passed in his company was full of excitement, but I could not imagine ever growing tired of his companionship, knowing that just around the corner I might discover something new and wonderful.

I have laid out in the first three parts of this story some of the finer details of what might be Holmes’ most unusual, some would say unspeakable, eccentricity: that he would only reveal any inclination to amorousness under the guise of his need for my medical expertise in some way. Over time, I discovered that Holmes could be quite the libertine, but confined within this narrow set of circumstances, it remained to me the most treasured and tender of intimacy, and I felt honoured to bear witness to it.

Having endeavoured for so long and with such great care to stay within the boundaries which Holmes had established, I did, I must confess, occasionally let my thoughts carry me to places which far overstepped those limits. These thoughts that I privately entertained were likely no different from the fantasies conjured by any man whose love dare not speak its name; Holmes and I enjoyed private lodgings and a selectively deaf landlady, but Holmes’ insistence on playacting made me inclined, in idle moments, to dream simply of making a straightforward advance to him, to gather him up in my arms and press my proud cockstand to his hip and declare my intention to throw him onto the bed and spend the evening (or afternoon; I wasn’t particular) ravishing him in every possible way.

Whenever we were alone, and unlikely to be disturbed, I frequently had to restrain myself from doing this very thing. All that prevented me from giving in was the fear that such an advance would prove disastrous, would convince Holmes that I was a reckless brute who had not the intelligence nor the fortitude to play the game properly.

But just as the gambler convinces himself that the next hand, the next roll, must surely be the one that will reward him with riches beyond avarice, so my resistance to my own savage urges began, slowly but undeniably, to crumble.

The occasion of my utter loss of control, and the resulting new revelation, were at the dead center of a case Holmes had accepted. There is no reason not to relate the case with a more reputable publisher at some point in the future, and so I shall tell you only the pertinent facts about it; I will excerpt more thoroughly only the amorous encounter contained within, the part which should never reach the eyes of respectable and upstanding readers.

A letter arrived at Baker Street, from a widow of some minor noble blood, let us call her Lady Anne Darby. As her daughter Isabel’s wedding approached, threatening letters had begun arriving at Lady Darby’s country estate (which would be serving as the wedding venue). The letters implied that someone at the wedding would be receiving some sort of grim retribution for past sins. Lady Darby begged Holmes to come at once under the guise of a distant relative and ordinary wedding guest, to identify the perpetrator and the intended victim before the ceremony took place.

Holmes decided at once that the case was worth his time, so we packed our bags and caught a train to Ashford, from there travelling on to Whitman House, where Lady Darby met us with great relief; as my stories made Holmes more well-known, I witnessed with increasing frequency Holmes’ arrival being treated like that of a saviour. _Surely now that Sherlock Holmes is here_ , clients’ eyes said, _everything will be put right_. And they were not entirely in the wrong to believe so, although they might not be so hopeful were they to know about some of my unwritten cases, such as the Adventure of the Sapphire Spittoon, or the Banshee of County Laois.

In a private room, over tea, Lady Darby shared the threatening letters she received. (She claimed they were written in blood; Holmes assured her that he was an expert on such matters, and it was merely red ink.) Holmes was the very picture of concentration as Lady Darby laid out the situation, but I found myself distracted by two things: first was the decor. Though the exterior of the manor was a typical country home, on the inside it far more resembled a hunting lodge – in every room we passed through, beasts both domestic and exotic, felled by several generations of men, lined the walls. The more recent specimens were meticulously and accurately taxidermied, the older ones, perhaps not so much. Accompanying these stuffed beasts were all manner of weapons and armor from around the world and spanning centuries. Though Lady Darby had clearly arranged for flourishes in the form of elegant sconces and splendid floral arrangements, they were not enough to temper the masculine atmosphere of the house.

The second thing that proved a distraction was Holmes himself. Despite all the things that I have described having to do with my amorous adventures with Holmes, when it came to his profession, and to any such people as he encountered besides myself, Holmes remained a paragon of discretion and propriety. He was just as stalwart, cool, and yes, occasionally dismissive of me as he had ever been. In recent weeks I’d taken to watching him closely for any gesture, any word, that might give us away to another party, and never finding any, I admired him all the more, for his ability to maintain his bloodless, marble-cold disposition, while he and I both knew that behind closed doors, we rutted like beasts.

Despite these distractions, I managed to take down most of the details of Lady Darby’s story in my notebook. She claimed that she had absolutely no idea who might be the potential target of these anonymous threats, as none of the wedding attendees (who had already begun to arrive and whose numbers would increase considerably in the coming day and a half) had ever been engaged in any untoward business or endeavour.

Holmes asked a few questions, examined the letters, and assured our hostess that no tragedy would overshadow her daughter’s wedding. He then asked that we be shown to our rooms.

We were given a little suite in a remote wing, rooms designed for a gentleman and his valet, or mistress and maid perhaps, with a small sitting room connecting the two bedrooms.

“You seemed confident in your ability to solve this case,” I remarked when we were alone. “You are not normally so quick to predict a successful outcome.”

Holmes tilted his chin as he surveyed the sitting room. “Matters of revenge tend to be the simplest, as the perpetrator’s anger blinds them to the forces working to thwart them.”

“But how to know that it is truly revenge, and not some other sort of vendetta? Our client insisted that the family was above reproach.”

Holmes scoffed at this. “So insist all who lead lives of leisure thanks to their antecedent’s efforts.” Holmes gestured to indicate our richly-furnished and exotically-decorated surroundings, a continuation of the hunting-lodge theme. “Gains of this stature are nearly always ill-gotten, and this family has been benefitting for generations, and on every continent, it would seem. You saw how old some of those specimens in the great hall were. Lord Darby was no self-made man; he and his ancestors have been men of means for hundreds of years – mining, trade, conquest, and in every corner of the world, no less – which means that the potential for swindled, cheated, robbed, or otherwise wronged parties goes back just as far. These letters could be the culmination of a blood feud going back to the days of the Plangents.”

I blinked. “Surely you mean the Plantagenets.”

“Of course I do,” Holmes huffed. “A mere slip of the tongue, and so I trust you will not use it to entertain your readers with more tales of the limitations of my knowledge of history.”

“The thought never occurred,” I told him.

“As I was saying: the truth of the matter is likely the exact opposite of Lady Darby’s claims. I suspect that every attendee of this wedding has something in their past, recent or distant, to make them the rightful target of retribution in _someone’s_ eyes. What we must do is identify the person who sent these letters, and that will be the key to identifying the object of their ire. This we can begin doing right away.”

Before we met any other residents or guests, Holmes went on to explain the identities he and I would assume, as distant cousins of the bride who had recently returned from an extended stay on the continent. He gave me a fitting name and background, and described his own to me in turn. The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent exploring the manor and grounds, and dining with our fellow wedding attendees. Holmes could be a veritable social butterfly at times like these, deftly collecting a wealth of carelessly divulged information even from those guests who could not rightly be called gregarious (or tipsy).

Only when most of our fellow guests had retired for the evening, and all the veins of gossip run dry, did Holmes suggest we make our way back to our own rooms. Though he had flitted about the manor before dinner, taking in every detail, this was our first opportunity to inspect our own rooms in such a way. One of the beds in our suite was ridiculously spacious, and Holmes and I stood in the doorway, looking at it, and then at each other.

“My friend, it would be dangerous,” Holmes said, knowing what I was tempted to suggest. “Were a servant to enter unexpectedly and see us abed, all hope would be lost of our seeing this case through, let alone the consequences beyond that.” His tone then became incongruously cheery, as he assured me, “I am happy to take the smaller bed, and you can have this one. I will be deep in thought all night with the data I have gathered, and so the luxury offered by a feather mattress of such extravagant dimensions holds no interest for me.”

I did not protest – I dared not, for example, suggest that perhaps we could take just half an hour for a private interlude, before Holmes got on with his pondering. I trembled with the resisting of this urge, but all I gave Holmes was a curt nod, to acknowledge the sensibility of his decision, before I moved on to the business of unpacking my case and preparing for bed.

That night, my sleep was disturbed by a very strange dream. I found myself in an ornately-furnished stateroom, with Holmes at my side, and a scarlet carpet beneath our feet. Before us stood Queen Victoria, as regal and dour as she ever appeared in any illustration or photograph, weighed down by the many honours, decorations, and ribbons that she wore. I recall seeing each one clearly and individually. It is funny how in dreams, our minds can make up so many details like this, that make us certain we are awake, and yet there is also always something off, something bizarre. As the Queen stood with hands clasped before her, Holmes introduced me as his colleague, friend, and biographer.

“…Doctor Watson has also done me the honour of initiating me into the joys of erotic congress, a practice which I had resisted for many years. I have much to thank him for.”

As this was a dream, and removed from any sense of reality, I did not find anything he was saying to be inappropriate or incongruous. Nor did Her Majesty react in any particular way to this declaration, that I can recall. She and I continued to listen politely as he went on:

“Watson sodomises me so skillfully, there is almost never any pain at all. I get nothing but enjoyment from his prick; its reliable comfort and entertainment has rescued me from the burden of the cocaine bottle. These days, when I am bored with life and the world, I no longer seek out the needle, but instead ask Watson to bugger me, which keeps me in good spirits for several hours afterward at least. It is truly a marvelous instrument.”

Holmes gestured to me, and then to the Queen. “Take it out and show it to Her Majesty, Watson. No need to be shy.”

Seeing nothing wrong with this request, I undid my trousers and pulled out my prick. Her Majesty inclined her head to examine it, while Homes pointed out to her some of his favourite features. She then produced from thin air a wide silk emerald ribbon, which she proceeded to tie round it: a decoration for my services to Holmes’ well-being, and thus to the Crown.

I was awakened by the sound of Holmes rapping at the door. “Rise and shine, Watson, there is work to be done!” I then heard him tramping off, I knew not where, but trusted that as soon as I shaved and dressed, he would find me.

Before getting up, however, I spent a minute or two trying to recall as much of my dream as possible, not only the images and words but the feelings of it. I began to convince myself that I had been self-satisfied, standing before the Queen, when in fact, I now believe that this was only something I conjured in retrospect: the pride of knowing that Holmes was so enamoured of me that he would not only allow such feelings to be known, but to let it be known before Victoria Regina, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India herself. While I certainly harboured no desire to reveal my private parts to Her Majesty, the idea of standing with Holmes unafraid of our love, unafraid of the consequences of announcing it, was intoxicating, and this notion stayed with me all day, distracting me at every turn. It was as though Holmes’ declaration were a memory, not a dream, and while the feeling lingered I had to remember to keep my usual scrupulous distance from him at all times.

That day, the eve of the wedding, I will not trouble myself to describe just now. Perhaps in the future, when this case is published properly, I will set out for the reader’s examination all of the various characters, some more colorful than others, and allow said reader to entertain themselves with speculation on which of them might be the vengeful wedding guest.

For now, suffice it to say that Holmes moved smoothly through these clusters of strangers as they passed the day in chatting, croquet, taking tea, and other idleness. He even took the time to assist with some last-minute organisational considerations for the wedding reception, already having gleaned enough information about many of the guests to make suggestions about rearranging their seating in order to defuse some long-standing feuds of a less dire variety.

His most important work, however, I believe was done when he slipped out alone to poke at unoccupied rooms. As he had not asked me to accompany him, I did my part to keep the other guests distracted from his sudden and inexplicable absences – with my efforts mainly directed at those other male guests who wished to busy themselves with a few hands of cards while they waited for the next meal to arrive. Though I could not banish Holmes from my thoughts, nor my strange dream, these distractions helped me stifle my inconveniently-timed longings.

At the conclusion of the day, Holmes was positively cheerful. He had a secret, I could just tell, but he said nothing. Relaxing before bed in our little sitting room, we enjoyed some brandy together in front of the roaring fire that had been laid for us. I mused on the dark, primal feel of the rooms: the low wooden beams harkened back to a time when man was closer to nature and more impulsive in his desires, and the furs draped over the furniture and scattered across the floor spoke of intense, masculine efforts, the subduing of savage creatures.

Whenever I looked at Holmes, he was gazing into the fire, seeming at all times to be barely suppressing a grin. When I asked him directly to reveal to me the identity of the vengeful correspondent, or their unsuspecting quarry, Holmes only raised an eyebrow impishly, then leaned forward and poured himself a second glass of brandy. I held out my own glass for a third pour; normally I wouldn’t, but it was perhaps a predictable impulse, at the end of a day spent holding back all manner of other impulses.

“I have only a very good idea,” Holmes said as he replaced the stopper in the decanter. “The one thing I am certain of for now is that no one is in danger, and the truth will be revealed beyond any doubt by someone other than myself tomorrow.”

“There is nothing else you can do which might prove the identities of the involved parties?”

“Not a thing,” he said, which seemed unlikely to me, but I let it go.

“And so there is nothing with which you and I must occupy ourselves until tomorrow,” I ventured, shifting in my seat.

“That is correct.”

“In that case, I should ask you to bolt the door.”

“What for?”

I set my glass down. The liquor had loosened my mind, my heart, and my tongue. “Because this room has given me a notion to lay you down on a pile of furs in front of that fire and have you in the manner of our brutish pagan ancestors.”

By the time I truly realised what I had said, it was well out of my mouth, and could not be taken back, which sent me into an immediate panic. I had just done the very thing I had worked so hard to keep from doing, and I’d done it to such an extreme degree as seemed unforgivable.

The only thing that could have shocked me more than having carelessly given voice to my own desires was Holmes’ immediate reaction. “What a splendid notion that is!” he said. “Who shall we play as, then?”

I did not have an answer for this, as the proposal I had just made had been the extent of my desire, save some scattered mental images. I sputtered for a moment before Holmes answered his own question with confidence and, dare I say it, glee:

“How about this: we are the chieftains of rival clans. I have captured you in a battle. Now, as a challenge to your manhood, you must make me reach a crisis three times in a single night. If you can, you will have proven yourself worthy, and our clans may live in harmony. But if you should fail, I will burn all your villages to the ground.” My alarmed expression did not deter him in the least; he leaned in close and said, “What do you think? Brutish indeed, hm?”

“Good Christ, Holmes,” I muttered. “But of course I’ll do it, yes.”

He rose from his chair. “Excellent! Go into the other room to undress.” Gesturing to the space in front of the fire, he said, “When you come back, this will be my thatched-roof hut.”

What could I do but follow these instructions? I dashed off to my room, closed the door, and leaned on the doorknob for a moment, struggling not to collapse from shock. I had so much to think about suddenly, and very little time to do so. I took my time in undressing, saying to myself that it was a courtesy to Holmes, to give him a few extra moments to prepare, but in all honesty I myself needed the time simply to contemplate what Holmes had just revealed to me. All along, I had believed that this little game he and I played was dependent on my being a physician, but in fact it now seemed that he was amenable to any sort of pretending.

Though Holmes exhibited the occasional Bohemian eccentricity, he was in truth a perfect gentleman, a paragon of proper English behaviour, and proper English behaviour dictated that for a man to freely express emotion was anathema, except in the most extreme circumstances (war being one that I had borne witness to). That was, I suppose, why so many of my contemporaries indulged in riotous rituals at their club, or sought the services of prostitutes to perform a variety of alarming sexual services.

Holmes also harboured such unruly emotions, and expressed them in odd ways whenever suppressing them became too much for him to bear. I already understood and accepted this, and was grateful for it: that it was not destructive, and that he expressed himself only with me. Whether this new revelation that any sort of playacting suited him was more strange or less so than his seeming fixation on medical scenarios, I did not consider myself fit to judge. My duty – and yes, I felt it a duty as well as a privilege and a pleasure – was to play along.

I returned to the sitting room without a stich of clothing on, as instructed. Walking past the settee, I saw that Holmes had piled before the fire all the furs that had been strewn across the floorboards or over the furniture. I found him in repose atop these furs now, wearing only a mischievous expression. His clothes were neatly folded on the settee, which had been pushed back, and he had moved only one other object in the room: an elaborately filigreed lamp, which he had extinguished and set within arm’s reach of himself.

I may have stood there for quite a while, just taking in the sight of him; I rather lost track of time while I did so. He looked absolutely delectable. I had seen him unburdened by clothing many times before, but never stretched out in front of a fireplace looking expectant. He was propped up on his elbows, watching me watching him. The flickering firelight danced over his limbs, throwing into even sharper relief the elegant lines of his body, all the scrumptious planes and sinews, not to mention his alpine cheekbones. His prick was at a half-stand, the glans wet and glistening where it peeked out of its sheath. And as if I were not already close to a conniption, he then tossed his head back and spread his thighs a little, watching my reaction with that singular gaze of his.

I lowered myself onto the furs, then crawled towards him on my hands and knees, an animalistic manoeuvre that expressed how I felt at that moment. Playing at being the captured chieftain who had entered into this strange bargain, I said, “I did not resist your proposal, so I trust that you will not resist anything _I_ put forth.”

“I am a man of honor,” Holmes said, as he unbent his elbows and lay supine on the furs – without ever taking his eyes off me. “I welcome any onslaught with which you might assail me.” With that, he arched his back, then stretched his arms above his head, showing off for me, enticing me still further.

And it was working superbly: the entirety of his lithe, sinewy form spoke directly to my prick. I wanted to hold every part of him in my hands, put every part of him in my mouth. But I also knew that before me lay a true challenge. In the past, I had brought Holmes to a crisis twice in one evening, but it was an unusual occurrence, and never had I assisted him in achieving this pinnacle thrice – neither of us was so young as we used to be. And I must confess, for myself, though my stamina serves me well, after spending once it is all I can do not to allow myself to be enfolded in the arms of Morpheus for the remainder of the evening – anything I intend to do to satisfy a partner, I must do it in one go-round.

So, in order to win this wager and protect these fanciful villages I ruled over, I would have to take great care, to work efficiently and with forethought. Thus, I decided that the thing I ought to do to provoke his first crisis would be the task I could perform with the most delicacy: bestowing upon him oral pleasures. Too much rough friction and he would be chafed and numbed for the second and third act; but with soft lips and warm tongue I could provoke the most marvelous responses in him without desensitising him. And, if I went slowly, I could make the anticipation do most of the work.

I began with the insides of his thighs, which he had so generously opened to me, favouring them with wet, generous kisses. I particularly delighted in doing this because he would always squirm with how my moustache tickled him, and make little noises. I made my way to even more sensitive places with great relish, diving into the creases where thigh met body, spreading his legs wider so I could tease him there without touching his bollocks. His prick twitched with his heartbeat, filling out charmingly. I breathed hotly over him, but still did not touch those treasures between his legs. Instead, I kissed all around them, and caressed his belly and thighs with the flat of my palms, whilst he became increasingly rampant.

When I believed that the time was finally right, the first part of him that I touched with my tongue was his fraenulum. I flicked over it playfully, then slid my tongue up to nestle in his slit, collecting the dew that had gathered there. I am certain that his prick attempted to leap directly into my mouth of its own accord, but I did not give it the satisfaction. However, with gentle fingertips I could tug his foreskin past the tip, so that I might tease and explore the inside of it. Holmes dug his fingers into the furs beneath him, and whimpered each time he breathed out.

Only when I had made him not only stiff but vociferous, pleading with me for mercy, did I finally gather his prick into my mouth. He groaned lustily as I engulfed him at last, then mastered himself, and for a while stayed quiet, his heaving breaths and the tension in his belly the most obvious indicators that I was doing a proper job. By now, he was so wound up, I knew I did not have much work left to do. I twirled my tongue all around the crown of him and over the slit, and only when he was trembling with the nearness of his crisis did I begin to pump him, sucking greedily as my lips slid back and forth over his shaft. He spent straight down my throat, struggling not to make too much noise, his whole body thrashing.

After I had swallowed down everything he offered, I released him, and nuzzled at his belly and thighs until he had calmed to a state of near insensibility. Now I had to consider how best to take a man who has been so depleted and rouse him again. I was soon fully resolved that to do so, I must seek a particular thing from him for the first time, and no longer wait for his coy request for it under the guise of a “therapeutic medical treatment.” While Holmes was semi-catatonic, I reached for the brandy, poured myself a glass, and took two thorough swigs. Partly this was to rinse the taste from my mouth, in case he found it offensive, but I also felt I could use the fortification.

I laid down alongside him and placed a hand upon his chest, cherishing the sight of his satisfied visage and feeling his great gratified sighs beneath my fingers. Before he could drift away into sleep, I whispered, “Holmes.”

“Hm?” I had hoped he would open his eyes, so that he could see what I was about to do and stop me if I ought not, but he kept them closed. I went ahead anyway, and pressed my mouth to his.

His gasp made my prick throb. I wished to immediately plunge my tongue inside, but I knew his reaction was not an invitation. Instead, I dropped kisses all around the edges of his mouth, waiting for a response that would tell me I was welcome.

When he wrapped his arms round me and crushed me to him, that seemed sufficient. I dipped my tongue delicately but rhythmically into his mouth, showing him how a good, deep kiss could be just as passionate as a frenzied fuck, if both participants were in the proper state of communal excitement. Holmes was soon reciprocating my advances with vigour, as though desperate to make up for all the time he’d spent foolishly not asking me for this act. All the while he clutched at me, and I could feel his virile member returning to life against my thigh.

Despite his newfound enthusiasm for osculation, I was certain that it would not be enough to bring him off for the second time – he was no hair-triggered youth. For this reason, my mind began to race with where I could get something to ease my way inside him, until I remembered the incongruously-placed lamp. I retreated from the kiss, looked at Holmes, then at the lamp, then back at Holmes. He nodded. I reached for the lamp, opened the reservoir, and dipped my fingers in: the fuel inside was more viscous than paraffin.

“Whale oil?” I asked, and Holmes nodded.

“How luxurious,” I remarked, as he spread his legs for me.

With the oil on my fingers, I could easily slide around in the vicinity of his tightly-puckered aperture, and tantalising him with a firm stroking of his cockstand, I got him relaxed enough to admit me as my efforts became more direct. I prodded and probed in that hot, confined space, until the resistance was no longer against my fingertips but around my knuckles. Holmes panted open-mouthed, propping himself up on his elbows and watching me work at him with both hands in order to excite himself further.

Kneeling at his hip, I could give him a solid postillioning with my left hand while stroking his prick with my right, and if he continued to lift himself towards me, I could still reach his mouth for more kisses. Most wonderful of all was when my tongue delved deeply into his mouth and the sensation caused him such a shock of pleasure that I could feel him contract around my fingers.

The kissing made it damned difficult to concentrate on making sure both my hands were moving with the same rhythm (which Holmes needed in order to reach completion), but I was convinced that it enhanced the experience when I could coordinate my tongue so all three elements fell into synchronization. Holmes seemed then to suddenly be aware of how he was being stuffed at both ends and frigged besides, and he pulled away just long enough to look helplessly into my eyes before he shuddered and spent into my palm.

As he collapsed back onto the furs, I took stock of the situation: he had spent only a little this time, just a trickle on my hand and a few glistening drops over his iliac crest. The sight of this served only to strengthen my resolve to empty him completely, to wring him dry and render him a shivering, debauched wreck – per his request, of course. My own cockstand was giving me impudence, demanding immediate satisfaction; I pinched it firmly behind the glans in order to stave off the orgasmic urge.

I withdrew my fingers, ignoring my body’s demand that I replace them immediately with my prick. Instead, I cleaned the scant spendings from his hip with my tongue, then sat by his side, lovingly stroking whatever parts of him I could reach, admiring the sex-flush that still stained his neck and chest. I caressed his exquisite form through his languor, and he let his head loll to one side, so he could see my twitching cockstand. Holmes was very fond of my prick, and reaching for it, fondling it, it wasn’t long before he was once more aflame with desire.

For the third round of our erotic struggle, I’d had enough of gentleness; it was time to take him in a fashion befitting our savage forebears. I dug my hands beneath him and seized his rump. Gripping him so, I hauled him into my lap, then grabbed my prick and smeared it all around, teasing his slickened entrance with it. With my other hand I went for the oil, drizzling it on my shaft to prepare myself.

He gripped me like a vise, but slowly and deliciously gave way to the steady push of my prick. Opening up Holmes’ tight little aperture to get at the warmth of his insides always served to excite me beyond reason, and he himself could not help but tilt his hips to welcome me in more deeply. There is really nothing quite like the confidence one feels knowing that one’s partner is just as avid as oneself, that no one is doing a duty to the other, but that you are together succumbing to a mutual carnal desire.

I enjoyed the luxury of Holmes’ eager orifice for some time, and only when I felt myself approaching the pinnacle of lust did I take more care, directing my attention to how near Holmes might be. He seemed to me to have reached a plateau, still very much enjoying himself but stalled before the next spiraling step to pure ecstasy. And while I was nowhere near collapse, I knew that I could not go on indefinitely. Grabbing at his hips, I hitched him up and spread him wider so I could get into him with every inch. He accepted all of me without complaint, and I began to work him with abandon, throwing my whole body into my task, hoping a bit of roughness would urge him on.

This continued until my thighs were crying out from overwork. Perhaps a change of position was in order. I withdrew, and demanded that Holmes climb atop me to take his own pleasure. I took the opportunity to stretch out and relax; not only would Holmes now be doing all the work of bouncing on my prick, but he could frig himself while he did so, and I would get a bit of a show as well.

Holmes dutifully rocked himself to and fro, and when I had regained some of my energy, I grasped his flanks and pushed up into him. But I should have known that this would not be the solution to my problems. Holmes liked to be _taken_ , to be held down, grabbed, handled. We would need to change again.

I patted his thigh to get his attention and bid him remove himself from my cockstand and rearrange himself into an elbows-and-knees stance. He obeyed without hesitation, and I hauled myself up and kneeled behind him. Placing my hands on his rump to steady him, I indulged myself by tugging at his rim with my thumb to see him more open. I hoped that this new arrangement would doubly serve me, not only being a more beastly and primal position, but also allowing me to plunge still more deeply into him, and more effectively stimulate his prostate. It was always important to me to make sure that this innermost need of his was seen to, but in this case it was particularly vital to maximise his pleasure.

I wasn’t wrong about these things, to be sure: Holmes couldn’t help but turn into a right trollop whilst on elbows and knees, his cries growing more forceful and uninhibited, just as they did any time I mounted him and ploughed him from behind. But still he would not spend. I thought perhaps a few lascivious words might provoke him, so I started saying things I’d been longing to, but had never dared. “How’s my prick feel inside you? Hm? Do you like how I’m touching you inside?”

Holmes did not seem able to form words, favouring me only with a little hiccup and a nod.

“Yes, I know it feels good,” I growled. “I belong inside you, don’t I?”

“ _Unh, hah_ ,” was all he could get out of his mouth to confirm this.

And yet in the next moment he was not, as I had hoped, reaching his elusive third crisis. The friction of his arsehole around my prick was increasing, so I took up the lamp oil and anointed myself on an out-stroke, to set things right again.

By now my fatigue was beginning to weigh heavily against my will to go on, and I was desperate for a conclusion. But there was one thing I had not yet tried, something I was confident he would find so startling it would leave him defenseless in body and mind.

I ordered him to lie flat on his back, and hardly had he done so before I was straddling his thighs. Grabbing the reservoir of the lamp, I poured the last of the oil over his prick, and before he could begin to inquire as to what I was doing, I heaved myself forward and sank down onto him, all the way to the root, sheathing him in my body.

That did the trick. Completely disarmed, his mouth fell open in utter shock, and a moment later, a series of tremors began to wrack his body. His eyes went wide, then slid shut as they rolled back. I could feel him pulsing as he spent in my depths, all the while arching his back, kicking his heels against the furs, grunting. I barely clasped my own prick in my hand before it began to erupt, a torrent of spunk landing on his chest. I squeezed around him involuntarily, milking the last of his pleasure from him.

Thus was spent the very last ounce of my energy. I crumpled bonelessly to one side of him, and we lay on our backs, staring at the ceiling beams, silently recovering ourselves. Soon we would have to get up, put the furs and the lamp back in their places, and retire to our separate rooms. But I was not ready to do this just yet, and the beatific expression on Holmes’ face told me he was not either.

I thought I might do well to keep up, for just a few more minutes, the idea that we were two rival chieftains, and had been all along. I rolled onto my side to face him, and said gruffly, “I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. Can I trust that you will fulfil yours?”

With great effort, Holmes lifted one arm from where it lay on the furs. Clapping his hand lightly on my shoulder, he smiled at me and replied, “Yes, my friend, you have my word: you and I shall live in harmony for all the rest of our days.”

***

The following morning, my sleep was interrupted once again by a knock on my door, but this time it was a servant girl, who apologised profusely for disturbing me before asking if I had seen Isabel – the bride. I replied that I had not seen her since the previous evening, and quickly rose to dress and shave so that I might join Holmes and learn more about what was going on.

I rushed downstairs, expecting to find Holmes there, at the center of any investigation as to Isabel’s whereabouts, but found only bustling servants and distraught family members, most of them clustered in the vicinity of the grand staircase near the main entrance to the house. I went back to our rooms, and found Holmes dressing at a leisurely pace.

“It would seem that my suspicions were correct,” he said, no more smug then he usually was when things went the way he expected, but with a touch more mischief in his voice, as though he had played a great trick on everyone simply by knowing.

“You know where the bride is?”

Holmes checked his watch. “I could better estimate if I knew what time she absconded. As it is, she could be anywhere between here and Calais.”

“Calais? Do you mean to say she’s–”

Holmes silenced me with a pat on my arm as he strode past me and out of the room. “Come, Watson, let’s first find Lady Darby, so that I’ll not need to explain twice.”

“Mister Holmes!” Lady Darby cried, running up the stairs to meet Holmes as he was descending them. We met her on the landing. “Something terrible has happened!”

“Has it? I suppose that depends on one’s point of view.”

Nearby, I heard someone mutter, “Mister Holmes? He was introduced to me as Samuel Finley.”

Holmes assured Lady Darby, “While I do not have every detail in hand, I am confident that I can explain the situation to your satisfaction, if you’ll allow me.” Seeing that he already had her full attention, he began to tell the story, and as he did, one by one bystanders realised what was happening, perking up their ears and moving closer, to hear what Holmes knew.

“The red ink in the letters proved the key to the whole case. While mingling at dinner two nights previous, I spotted – if you’ll pardon the turn of phrase – a blot of red ink on the sleeve of Isabel’s dress. Likely it escaped the attention of everyone else, including Isabel herself, as the floral pattern of the fabric did much to disguise it.”

He gave Lady Darby a moment to understand the implications of this. “Are you saying that my _daughter_ wrote those vile letters? But why would she ruin her own wedding?”

Holmes smiled. “Why indeed? This was the question which prompted me to investigate Isabel’s rooms, while everyone was socialising after dinner. I am not normally in the habit of sneaking into young ladies’ rooms and going through their things, I assure you, but to solve this case merited that action. Being familiar, as I am, with several dozen ways that a person might conceal items in an ordinary bedroom or study, it was not long before I discovered that Isabel had a stash of papers hidden between two drawers of her desk. Half of these papers were the same blank stationery on which the threatening letters had been written. The rest was correspondence of a restrained but clearly quixotic nature that Isabel had received, written in a masculine hand. Included amongst these letters was a photograph of a young man, presumably the man writing the letters. The letters were signed only with a ‘W,’ but if I were to describe to you a man in a naval uniform, with thick dark hair, bushy eyebrows, and a crooked nose, someone might spring to mind…?”

“William Mercy,” Lady Darby said, as one would utter a curse.

“Am I to assume that William Mercy is a man with whom Isabel was at one point smitten, but whom she was not destined to marry?”

“You assume correctly,” Lady Darby sniffed. “Lord and Lady Phillips and I determined that their Charles would be a much more suitable match. And if that prompted William to flee to sea in despair, so much the better.”

“It would seem Isabel thought differently. The most recent letter in her possession gave the details of where William could be found on the continent once his military service came to an end. What I am about to suggest is conjecture, but I think it is safe to say that upon discovering that she might have a chance to make a life with the self-exiled William after all, Isabel attempted to strike such fear into your heart with those threatening letters that you would delay the wedding, giving her a chance to make her way to the continent to elope shortly thereafter with William. When it became clear that the wedding would happen as planned, she left anyway. She’ll have to make her own way until William can meet her, but I dare say that will explain any currency that you find has gone missing in the coming days.”

I have never seen a woman so furious as Lady Darby, when Holmes came to the end of his explanation. Clenching her fists, she shrieked, “You knew these things all along, and said nothing!”

Holmes remained cool in the face of her ire. “That is false. I could not be absolutely certain whether she would go through with it until she did so.”

“But you suspected! You could have stopped her!”

“That is not what you hired me to do. You hired me to find out who was sending the letters, and to discover the intention behind those letters. These things I have done.”

Red in the face and shaking, Lady Darby pointed a finger at the front door and growled, “Get out! Get out at once! I shall curse the name of Sherlock Holmes until my dying day!”

A murmur went up in the crowd when Holmes’ name was spoken. I couldn’t help but smirk with satisfaction, and nod slightly to those who were now guessing my identity as well. _Yes, all this time, all of you have been in the presence of the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. Isn’t he impressive?_

It was only Lady Darby’s opinion that mattered at the moment, however, and within minutes, our things were packed and we were in a carriage headed for the train station.

Holmes seemed entirely unperturbed by our being so suddenly and dramatically expelled from Whitman House. In the carriage, I could not hold my tongue. “I must say, it was a bit cruel not to warn Lady Darby that her daughter was going to elope. Was it not?”

“My dear friend,” Holmes sighed, avoiding my gaze and instead taking in the countryside around us, “it is entirely outside my area of expertise to turn the human heart away from its strongest desires. To warn Lady Darby would only have caused Isabel more misery, likely a lifetime of it, and her family as well. And I must confess, in recent months I have acquired much wisdom about certain things, in particular a new sympathy for people who wish only to be with the person they love, and free of the confining expectations of society. I will help them if I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> berlynn-wohl on Tumblr and Pillowfort for more of this sort of nonsense, plus information about my stories that are not available on AO3.
> 
> I also used to be something of a BBC!Johnlock fic writer, and you can check those out on this site. :)


End file.
